


S C A R F A C E

by hellopurpletiger (Felix_Kawaii)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, explicit description of scarring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 13:06:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12984696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felix_Kawaii/pseuds/hellopurpletiger
Summary: "It wasn't the kind of cutesy cut that the boys in the playground bragged about...it was freakish"--headcanon where Harry's scar is a lot bigger than the moviestrigger warnings: explicit description of scarring.





	S C A R F A C E

**Author's Note:**

> In case you didn't realise - TRIGGER WARNING - EXPLICIT DESCRIPTION OF SCARRING.

* * *

_**S C A R F A C E** _

* * *

Harry hated the staring. There had never been a time where he hadn't. Even as he shuffled down the street, eyes low, head bent, neck straining with the effort, people's gazes followed him down the wet pavements.

Worse than that, was the not-staring. The kind of horror-shock-ohmygod aversion of eyes and widened pupils that snatched themselves away from his face. Or more accurately, his scar. It wasn't the kind of cutesy cut that the boys in the playground bragged about – Dudley with a bald pink scar through his eyebrow, Piers with a circular scab on the skin of his knee – it was the kind of disfigurement that made all the other boys and girls run away screaming and shrieking. Made even grown-ups either stare or look away.

It was freakish.

The scar was big, stretching across his forehead from one side, like a misshapen spider web engraved deep into his skin and across his left eyelid, stopping just above the cheekbone. Piers had once asked if the Dursley's had dropped him as a baby, shattering his face like his sister Daisy's porcelain doll.

Harry hated it, hated that  _stupid_ scar more than Harry Hunting, more than cooking breakfast in the mornings, more than living with the  _stupid stupid_ Dursley's.

He was certain that the scar hadn't started off so huge. It was only that somewhere between the beginning of Primary school and the end of it, it had grown past his eyebrows and begun etching itself into his left eyelid and temple. Late at night, especially in summer, when the heat and humidity made the cupboard nearly unbearable, a heavy suffocating treacle of heat that made his skin clammy and hot, the scar made his face feel numb and dead.

And in winter, like it was now? The air was cold and sharp and bone-seep-damp with the aftermath of heavy rain and hail, and the wind cutting and lashing with blistering rage. Harry brought his trembling fingers to his cheek, gritting his teeth to stop the chattering from pulling at the skin above the bone. His blue-veined hands covered the ruts and ridges around his eyes. The stiff scar tissue ached.

It did that. Sometimes it hurt, sometimes it didn't. Sometimes, it made his face feel it was made of the thinnest, most brittle glass, and sometimes, it was as pliable as worn leather. The skin around the grooves wasn't dead or waxy and tough like a bad burn, it felt exactly like the unmarked parts of his face – though he wasn't sure if he should be grateful for that or not, after all the scar was  _spreading._  He figured that's why the skin around it wasn't dead.

The scar only crossed his left eyelid a few times. Not deep enough to blind, but deep enough that when it was an ache-y day, he couldn't open that eye at all.

People stared and didn't stare. People asked and didn't ask. Even if they didn't ask, Aunt Petunia always explained anyways if she caught them staring, her face pinched. "It was a car crash!" She would snap, frostily. "The boy was in a car crash!"

It was freakish.

The envelope was thick and heavy. In the darkness, lying there with the springs of his mattress digging into his spine, the cupboard was only barely lit by the thinnest sliver of light between the cupboard door and its hinge. But it was enough so that he could see the paper of the envelope was creamy white and smooth beneath the whorls of his fingertips. On the back was a bright red seal, like the ones in those olden day movies on the telly, and a fancy, swirly H pressed deep into the wax.

There were plenty of them lying round the house, buried in the garden, spilling crumpled out of the bins. Uncle Vernon wouldn't miss one. Probably.

It was probably the nicest thing he owned. Expensive paper. Pretty seal.

And the best thing about it, was the calligraphy neatly slanted across the front. The black-inked letters were perfectly formed and though he squinted at it as hard as he could, it didn't look like there was a stroke or a dot out of place.

_Mr H. Potter_

_The Cupboard under the Stairs,_

_4 Privet Drive,_

_Little Whinging_

_SURREY._

He traced that first 'M' and followed the swirls into the 'r', smooth though his hand was a little shakey. The 'H' that curled at its ends and finished with a proud dot. And then the 'P' right through to the double 'tt' and eventually the final 'r'.

Harry wasn't going to open it. He wasn't sure he could – after all, what if it wasn't for him in the end? Or it was something really awful? Aunt Marge always did say the Dursley's should just send him away.

So he wouldn't open it. But he could admire the envelope. That would be enough.

There was a rock in the sea. And on that rock there was a small house – no not a house, in fact, more like a hut. It had a small upstairs, where his Uncle and Aunt were asleep. And a downstairs, with a little fireplace, a few chairs around a table and an old couch, where Dudley was snoring away.

Harry, himself, was lying on his stomach on the floor as close as he could physically get to the hearth, drawing shapes in the grey-white dust. At first, he'd thought that Uncle Vernon had been driving them to find the letter senders, but as they'd driven further and further away from the towns and cities and the big roads, he'd started to fear that maybe the Dursley's had decided to send him away after all.

Initially, he'd assumed he was to be dumped, like an old fridge, on the side of some tiny, winding farm road in the countryside. But when the car had finally stopped, they were at the end of a dock, facing the sea, salt spray cutting his cheeks.

So they hadn't left him yet. Why, exactly, he wasn't sure, but if they hadn't done it then, then they were probably going to do it tomorrow while he was still sleeping.

On the couch, Dudley's new Ben10 watch flashed neon green,  **[00:00]** , its digits bright in the flickering firelight.

Harry looked down at his dust-drawing, eleven candles on a grey-brown-floor-dust-cake. He leant down and blew them out, the shapes blurring together.

"Make a wish, Harry." He rolled onto his back to stare at the dark ceiling, odd shadows jumping and flitting across the old wooden beams.

He wasn't sure what he was going to wish for, because almost immediately as the words fell from his mouth, there was a banging at the door.

It startled everyone. Dudley jolted awake mid-snore and fell off the couch with a loud thump. And then, all of a sudden, Uncle Vernon was down the rickety stairs holding his shotgun aloft whilst Aunt Petunia scuttled towards his cousin. Harry moved into the corner, away from all of them.

"Who's there?!" Uncle Vernon yelled loudly into the night.

There was a brief pause outside.

And then the door began to groan and moan and then it was up off its hinges with a sharp bang and a clank, in the hands of the biggest, tallest, largest man Harry had ever seen. The large man lifted the door up, stepped inside the hut, and then put the door back into its place with sheepish look.

"Sorry 'bout that." The large man said, patting the door in apology, "Don't know me' own strength sometimes."

Uncle Vernon's face seemed to be getting redder with every word. He pointed the gun menacingly at the man. "I demand you leave at once. You are breaking and entering!"

"Dry up Dursley, you great prune!" The large man laughed. Uncle Vernon's face was beginning to resemble it more and more. The man reached forwards and with one hand bent the muzzle of the gun upwards like a noodle. He turned suddenly, scanning the rest of the room until his eyes found Dudley.

"Well, I haven't seen you since you was a baby, Harry." He frowned. "But you're a bit more along then I would'a expected; particularly 'round the middle."

Dudley cocked his head sideways. Behind him, Aunt Petunia looked about ready to faint dead away. "I'm not…I'm not Harry."

 _Right, offer up the orphan to the guy who ripped the door of its hinges, obviously._ Harry bit his lip and then with a quiet sigh, he stepped forwards. "…I am."

The large man whirled around to face him. Harry could tell the exact moment his eyes found him. The large man's eyes widened and his jaw dropped a little, for a brief moment that was still enough to send a sharp burn of humiliation down his spine and heat to his ears, when he saw the scar across Harry Potter's face. It was gone quickly though, replaced with something warmer and brighter.

"Well, of course y'are!" The large man boomed, a smile spreading on his face. "Got something for you. 'Fraid I might'a sat on it at some point but I imagine it'll taste fine jus' the same." He reached a hand into his coat pocket until his arm was elbow deep and then emerged to hand a slightly bashed-in box to Harry. "Baked it me'self, words n' all."

There was a cake inside. The icing was clumpy and running down the sides and some of the edges had crumbled away, revealing thick red jam. On top, the words were messy, and unevenly sized where the 'a' of day had been forgotten and then hastily iced in.

_Happy Birthd_ _y_

In a contest between the envelope he'd saved hidden beneath his threadbare shirt or his first birthday cake, he was pretty sure the envelope died.

"Thank you!" Was all he could think to say. He had a birthday cake. He had a birthday cake! Him! Harry!

The large man scratched the back of his neck with an almost shy smile, "It's not every day a young man turns eleven, now, is it?"

__

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: so it's been a little while since i posted anything, but i jotted this down a couple months ago and then promptly decided i had no idea where to run with it so ATTENTION! I PRONOUNCE THIS THINGY UP FOR ADOPTION IF YOU LIKE - PLEASE LET ME KNOW THOUGH IF YOU'D LIKE SO I CAN READ IT! It's not exactly an original idea, I know, so many people headcanon the scar being way bigger than it is in the movies which yeah i get but i was interested in exploring that sort of involuntary pause that people can get when facing obvious disability/disfigurement. I'm pretty sure most people are guilty of averting their eyes or a brief moment of oh, which is not very nice but actually fairly human to do so. It's only when people use the feature to define the person or make quick judgments of character that I find deplorable. Anyways, i thought i'd write it. I'm really sorry if it offends anyone, I know it can be a bit of a sensitive topic.
> 
> SO, to recap, thingy up for adoption if anybody wants, and thanks for reading!


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